


Off The Skag

by H3L



Category: Trainspotting (Movies), Trainspotting Series - Irvine Welsh
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-17 22:45:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11278326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/H3L/pseuds/H3L
Summary: A short vignette from Mark and Simon's stint in rehab.





	Off The Skag

**Author's Note:**

> This is reworked from a couple of chapters in Skag Boys. I own nothing, not even some of the dialogue. All credit goes to Irvine Welsh and his Leith.

“Rents”

“Rents”

“Rent Boy”  
…

“Renton!” 

I didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. I wasn’t sleeping mind, but I didn’t want Sick Boy to ken it. He’d come in, unannounced as usual, closing and locking the door behind him like we were still laddies smoking hash at my folks house and jerking off to pictures of my cousin Deena instead of fully grown gadgies in a drug rehabilitation program. It didn’t matter, the cunt just sat down and started gabbing anyway. 

“Git up, ye cunt. There’s nae point pretendin you’re naw awake. Ah need tae talk tae ye.” 

I groaned and covered my eyes in my little state-issue bed. “Aye, ah was tryin. Kin we naw figure it oot in the morning?” Sick boy was leaned back across my kip with his back against the wall, smartly dressed for dinner and looking disparagingly at my gray tracky bottoms and junk-thin, bare chest. The look reminded me disturbingly of his little sister Carlotta and of a dream I’d had a some weeks back. I had been naked and eating a full breakfast of egg, tomato, and fried bread with Sick Boy in his signature Italian suit by the Water of Leith. Only while we were eating he morphed into the beautiful wee Carlotta Williamson. She were dressed in a two-piece swimsuit made of the Alcan foil that Simon uses to dye his hair. I was already fucking her before she turned back into him. We did not stop and eventually I woke up covered in spunk and cringing at the sight of my peroxide-haired hallucination sharing the spare mattress with me in Swanney’s flat. We were both junk sick since Swanney had no gear. I feel the same way now as I did then, miserable and junk sick and horny as fuck. My nightly carnal rituals of masturbating about Joanne Dunsmuir and Les and even wee Carlotta only took the merest of the edges off. 

Sick boy eyed my partially tented bottoms and grinned slyly. “And therapy Tom says _ah’m_ sexually dysfunctional.” My skin heated up under a layer of clammy sweat and I remembered lingeringly that his cock was bigger than mine. Fuck him. “Speaking of sexual matters,” he continued, “ah’ve got a philosophical query for yoose. We want your view.” I huffed. Sick Boy and his philosophies. If I could’ve rolled my eyes without earning his righteous ire, I would’ve done. Sick Boy’s voice dropped cagily, “I heard a wee tale aboot this…this boy, who let hisself get fucked up the arse by a bird.” There was a beat and I felt my interest pique. 

“What are ye fucking oan aboot? Was this so-called bird really a tranny or something?”

“Naw… it was a genuine lassie. They went back tae hers thegither and she strapped oan a big dildo…and rode him up the arse wi it.” 

That stopped me dead.

His legs were crossed in front of him and his head was leaned back against my wall, like her was counting the tiles, but I could practically feel his heart hammering in his chest. Well, Sick Boy let himself get rode up the arse? And I always thought it’d be me with the loose gender identity. Numbly I said to him, “wow…”

“…he enjoyed it!” Simon insisted shakily, “or so she said.” I pictured ‘this boy,’ Sick Boy, on his hands and knees. In my mind he were panting in orgasm and I sucked in a deep breath through my nose. My cock stirred but I tried to keep an impassive look on my face. 

“Sounds dubious tae me…” I told him, voice steady but slightly nasally sounding from the skag.

“Aye,” he said, seeming to consider this. “…Well, the lassie told us that this boy wisnae interested in having a guy’s cock up there. But she said that anal stimulation feels better for gadges than birds because, as men, we have a prostate gland tae stimulate.”

“Dae ah ken this boy?” I asked him, even though I knew Sick Boy was lying. There was no way he was talking about anyone but himself. He never talks about anyone but himself. 

“Aye,” he said slowly. His eyes were unfocused while he collected himself, like he was rearranging the furniture in his head. He was crafting the story he would feed me. “Don’t say anything, but Ali telt us aboot it.” 

There it was, the lie. He wanted me to think that the ‘boy’ in question was my old bandmate Hamish because he and Ali had gone on holiday together but I knew Hamish never got the bottle to ride her. We used to call him the heterosexual poof, so getting fucked up the arse wouldn’t be a major departure. It wasn’t a bad lie but I knew better.

“Ali was the lassie that rode this gadge with a dildo?” Ali and I had not been close in the past, always a bit tense with each other. Could never say where the undercurrent of hostility came from, although it was likely Simon David Williamson, as we were rather often jockeying for his mercurial attentions. Still, I was impressed with her convincing Sick Boy to let her ride him like a buftie. “Hamish ye think, naw, nawt my old bandmate.”

“Aye. Heterosexual poof by name and by nature, so it would seem. My query is: is the boy straight or gay?” He faced me as he asked the million dollar question, rubbing his lips together and staring me down. I’ve known Simon for yonks and I’d never seen him more intent on someone other than himself than in that moment. 

“Did this gadge ride Ali eftir she’d tanned his erse in?” I asked him seriously. 

He thought for a second only. “Aye, he did. Hopelessly queer or straight and experimenting?”

“If he didnae ride her I’d say mair screaming poof, but that he shagged her eftir – heterosexual.” Sick Boy brightened and let go of my duvet, which he had unconsciously clenched between his skinny fingers.

“My view entirely!” he pointed at me in triumph. “It’s naw the fact that he experimented wi her thrusting a dildo up his chorus n verse, try anything once and all that, but that he shagged her eftir!” I nodded to him in confirmation. It was an interesting enough tale but once Simon had confirmed his own heterosexuality, he started talking about girls, his family, Hibs, and the lassies in our current living situ. He was gabbing away, overjoyed at his confirmed masculinity, but I could think of naught but his story. _Ali had rode Sick Boy._ I was watching him gab, tuning his voice out and only nodding when he needed confirmation. I watched him closely. He was pretty, I had to give him that. He looked better there, in rehab, flushed and healthy in a green sweater and black trousers with his hair soft instead of slicked back. And there’s a charisma about Sick Boy that none of us gadges have. He behaves like he wants the world and to his thinking he’s only just about to get it. It’s not enough to look the part; to compete with Sick Boy, one’s got to have the same total confidence that he’s got. And none of us, not one, has it. It’s what makes him such a good scammer. Birds, punters, they were all the same to Sick Boy, anyone who isn’t a mate is a mark. 

“Ah know she’s naw yer type, but ye have got tae admit, Mark, thit Molly could bring in some poppy wi tae right…encouragement.” 

I pushed the duvet further down my body roughly and sat up, “thas a barry idea,” I all but shouted at him. I flinched at the reedy whine of my voice but soldiered on. “Pimp oot all the lassies in rehab, Si. Really, do.” Sick Boy stopped. His face was dumb and a little cruel when he smirked at me.

“Aye, she’s too clean jus naw, but eftir she’s oot a here and conditions are mair favorable, that wil change. Yoo’ve got a better plan, ye radge cunt?” 

“I might have.” I steeled myself and pictured Simon, arched beneath Ali and keening for her to keep tanning his arse. “I wannae try it.”

“Try wha? Pimpin Molly?” He snickered. “No offense, mate, but yoo’ve not got the bottle fer it.” 

I straightened and stared him directly in the face. “Naw, I wannae have a go. I wannae have ma protate stimulated.”

“Ah’m nawt a buftie and I don’t think Molly has nuthin like Ali did, she’s nawt the type.”

“Ah’m naw sain that. Ah only thought, since ye haid tried an aw. I might gi it a go…”

“Ah told ye, it weren’t me.”

“It weren’t Hamish,” I replied.

He didn’t correct me again. I knew it. There was no way Hamish would’ve let Ali fuck him. I looked at the tent my cock was making in my bottoms and wiggled back embarrassed, palming myself in an effort to push my prick down. Sick Boy’s eyes followed mine and my chest tightened nervously. He licked his lips. I knew better than most that Sick Boy could be effortlessly cruel. Usually our antagonism for each other was feigned for the benefit of others, and we could be a devastating combination when we got on somebody, but there was a reason Simon was called Sick Boy and not Sound Boy or Braw Boy or Decent Boy. I pressed on. “Ah need a shag, mate, ye know wha it’s like,” I said. I shivered against my will and it perfectly well illustrated my point. Sick Boy had been in rehab roughly a week more than me. He was farther along but would still be feeling the effects of junk withdrawal, one of which being the raging return of your sex drive. I knew my carpet was streaked with more spunk than the walls of an Amsterdam sauna and I was confident that his would be as well. 

“Wha do ye want? Ye want meh to ride ye, Mark?” Simon asked. His voice was quiet and he was looking at me with his big lamp eyes appraisingly. He licked his lips again. I’d seen the look he was given me quite a lot in the illustrious tenure of our friendship, as Sick Boy wants to shag nearly every woman he meets. He’d told as much to Therapy Tom in his sessions, which is why Tom thinks Sick Boy is sexually dysfunctional and predatory. The look is one he gives a bird whilst weighing the benefit and opportunities that would be afforded from fucking her against the effort it would take to charm her and measuring the possible fall out. I was so focused on watching his face that I failed to notice his hand until it was moving up my femoral artery, feeling my heart thump blood through my thighs and into my cock. 

“Ah’m wanting…” I broke off when his exploration reached the tent in my lap. His hands were big, bigger than mine and bigger than Hazel’s or Fiona’s certainly. I willed myself to calm down but he gripped my cock and I felt it swell under his palm. 

“Ye do,” he smirked, “ye want meh to ride yer arse, Renton, admit it.” I thought he would do something, laugh at me or tell me to fuck off. I knew he wouldn’t hit me because Simon always said violence was beneath us, for losers, he and I took to emotional pain much more easily. He didn’t though. He stared at us from under those dark eyebrows until I nodded. Then he nodded back and squeezed my cock until I was gasping. I groaned and he laughed at me, breathlessly. I laughed too, at the absurdity of our new arrangement. He leaned over, biting his lip, and brushed his nose against mine. I kept waiting for him to jump up and call me a poof, waiting for him to bolt off to tell Keezbo or Seeker that I was a rampant homosexual. Instead he squeezed my cock again and when I opened my mouth to moan he leaned in and kissed me on the mouth. 

“Fuck,” I sighed into him. 

I didn’t realize he was leaning me back until he was over us and I could feel his cock rubbing against mine through his trousers. He was hard and all. The realization slipped away just as quickly when his knees started spreading my legs open. His tongue was alternating against my neck between long, slow licks and nips at the collar bones. Sick Boy was a surprisingly attentive lover and it made sense to me why so many lassies preferred him to any of the rest of us lads. I fantasized briefly that he would lean down and suck my cock but that was not to be. Sick Boy sat up and smiled, feral and predatory. His eyes were glassy and he looked too pleased with himself at the shivering, pathetic state of me. “Off,” he said, tugging at the waistband of my bottoms. He was unbuckling his belt leisurely as I shimmied beneath him in undignified haste. I was completely naked before he had gotten his sweater off. His cock was hard and long, pushing against the buttons on the front of his keks. My sphincter tightened in sick anticipation. He pushed his trousers down to his knees and rubbed the head of my cock, smearing his hand with my spunk. “Over.” 

I turned over obediently and felt a pang of hatred for myself and how easily I let Sick Boy order me around. I had never let him have this level of control over me before. We were supposed to be mates, equals, but I was the one on my hands and knees with his fingers spreading my arse cheeks. We had a square go when we were just lads, yonks ago, neither of us won but I held my ground longer. For this reason, I always thought, in the back of my mind, that if we were to get into a swedge that I would come out on top. My cock wilted slightly in my embarrassment at the current state of things. I nearly pulled away but I had a sudden, irrational fear of Sick Boy’s hands pulling me back and holding me down. “Ye orlroight, Rents?” He said, sensing my trepidation and smoothing my back with a hand calculated to be soothing.  
I swallowed and nodded, “aye. Go oon.” He laughed behind me and bent forward to nip my shoulder. I could feel the head of his cock pushing against me and he let out a 'woosh' of air over my neck. 

My arse clenched and he huffed but moved away. He replaced his cock with two fingers and began pressing them against my hole. “Relax, Mark,” he said as he wiggled the fingers in. He reached around me with his other hand and began stroking my cock until it was hard again. I began to pump into his fist and in doing so pushed myself back onto his hand. His fingers spread open and curled inside me uncomfortably. “Thas it, ah’ve got to make room,” he purred. I pumped myself into him and onto him a few times before he retracted his fingers from inside of me and replaced them with the head of his cock. He slid forward, moaning into my neck as he pushed himself in. It hurt. A lot.

“Ah,” I heard myself grunt under him, my elbows bending under my weight. “That- that hurts.” 

“Aye, it’s nippy, but ye wait for it.” He let go of my cock and felt him pull out and push in again slowly. When he did, Simon pulled my hips up. He did this again and again, moving me slightly this way and that. It was all I could do to keep still and not try to crawl away from him. It took two or three pumps in and out before I felt it. My cock jumped back to life and I moaned underneath him like a twee lassie. Sick Boy laughed behind me before pulling out and recreating the thrust. 

_That was your prostate_ , my brain stuttered to me in hazy bliss. 

I clamped my mouth shut and breathed through my nose when he began to hit the bundle of nerves with every hard push. I felt my arms, stronger since I started working out with Seeker, begin to shake and give out further. Sick Boy was over me, whispering as he fucked my arse, but I was fisting the sheets just trying to hold on. “Ye feel so good, Rent Boy, ye’r tighter than any fanny ah’ve ever shagged. Gawd, ye’r mine, all mine. Ah’m gaunnae cum all o’er ye, ye filthy fort slut.” I tried to tune him out but he was getting into it and he wasn’t the only one. 

He was alternating between long slow strokes and short, sharp thrusts. I was positively wreathing under him. Gradually he stopped slowing his thrusts down and was plunging into me in a relentless, steady rhythm. Sick Boy’s hands found the small of my back and he pushed down until my cock was fucking the mattress under me, steadying himself. I felt my toes curl and my arse push back into him as I started to cum in sticky smears against my sheets. I was shuddering and gasping, incoherent as my cock emptied, but Simon wouldn’t shut up. He was muttering in mostly Italian but I could pick out some words. Mostly, ‘yes’ and ‘that’s right.’ I had already cum but he kept hitting that spot and my cock continued to leak. I was shaking hard from the first non-auto erotic orgasm I’d had in months when he leaned into my ear, deliberately switching back to halting English for my benefit. “Ah knew-ye wanted oor cock-ah knew. All that-Uni shite-aboot wankers and sexuality-you were begging-fer it.” I wasn’t strong enough to buck him off when he made one final, deep push. _“Avanti!”_

I collapsed and Sick Boy fell forward onto me for only a second before he rolled so that we were side by side, his limp cock popping out of me easily. I dragged the sticky, crumpled sheet from under my belly and pushed it to the floor. We’d get up for another round of laundry in an hour or two anyway. Simon grabbed the duvet and pulled it over us. 

“Tha was…that was good,” I muttered, my muscles feeling like jelly and my head turned toward him against my pillow. 

“Aye,” Sick Boy replied, sitting up and searching his pants for a lighter. When he found it, he lit a fag and placed it into my mouth. I inhaled deeply and returned it. He smirked and took a long drag, leaning back against the wall and blowing smoke up to the ceiling. _“Aye.”_


End file.
